


Love Letters Etched in Skin

by CumberCurlyGirl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Feels, Johnlock - Freeform, Kisses, M/M, Podfic Available, Post-Reichenbach, Scars, Sherlock's scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:07:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26934847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CumberCurlyGirl/pseuds/CumberCurlyGirl
Summary: John kisses Sherlock's scars.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 30
Kudos: 148
Collections: Sherlock Author Showcase 2020





	Love Letters Etched in Skin

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a facebook comment on a piece of art that I created.
> 
> Podfic available here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29867931

“Who hurt you?” John says, tracing the line of gnarled flesh at the base of Sherlock’s spine with his finger as he sits beside Sherlock, who lies face down on the rumpled bed. The afternoon sun streams through the window, bathing their naked bodies in its golden warmth.

“It doesn’t matter,” Sherlock replies, his voice muffled by the pillow.

“I’ll kill them,” John says. And he means it.

Sherlock turns his head to look over his shoulder and John can see his half-smile as he says, “I know you would, John. But there’s no need now. They’ve been taken care of.”

“You should have taken me with you,” John says as he traces the long scar that travels diagonally from Sherlock’s lower back to just below his shoulder blade. As he does this, he imagines what the fresh wound would have looked like, bloody and raw, and he clenches his jaw as rage bubbles up.

“You killed them?” he says.

“Not me.”

“Mycroft?”

Sherlock’s derisive laugh is almost a snort. 

“OK, not actually Mycroft, but Mycroft’s people, then?”

“It’s best that you don’t know, John.”

“You should have taken me with you,” John repeats. “I would have stopped them…I would have stopped…this.” And he bends to kiss the scar that lies across Sherlock’s right shoulder blade.

“I couldn’t do that. I had to protect you.”

“What if you had died? What if I had lost you forever?” John’s lips touch the scar on Sherlock’s left shoulder and linger there on the warm flesh, still moist with the sweat from their lovemaking.

“When I went, I expected to die. I wanted to die. But then I changed my mind, John. I found that I wanted to live. That I wanted to come back—to you. Even if you didn’t want me.”

“You idiot,” John whispers as he kisses the small scar over Sherlock’s kidney. “Of course, I wanted you. How could you not know that?”

“You weren’t exactly offering yourself up. All those...tedious girlfriends. And none of them worthy of you.”

“I’m so sorry, Sherlock. I just never imagined that you’d…you know…go for this kind of thing.” John’s hand travels from Sherlock’s back to the curve of his arse and he gives it a squeeze. 

Sherlock is silent for a moment. “I was afraid, John. Before I left, before Moriarty. And being afraid is not something I’m used to. I was afraid you’d run. That you’d leave Baker Street. I couldn’t risk that. I decided that I’d rather live with my best friend and keep my desires to myself. I’d kept them to myself my entire life, hadn’t I? Married to my work and all that. I was prepared to live that way indefinitely if I could keep you close.”

“But Moriarty…?”

“Yes, Moriarty. I underestimated the extent of his derangement. How far he was willing to go to burn me. But that’s over now.”

“I hate him,” John says. “I hate that he did this to you. I wish he were alive so I could kill him myself. I’d make it slow and painful…Oh, Sherlock, your poor, beautiful back…" With his hand still on Sherlock’s buttock, John kisses the scar that runs almost horizontally across Sherlock’s back and around his side.”

“Was it awful?” John asks, immediately regretting such a stupid question. Of course, it was awful. He pictures Sherlock tied and helpless as some goon beat him without mercy. Had he cried? Had he begged? Had he called John’s name? Had he regretted his choice in that terrible moment?

“Does Mycroft know about this?” John says. 

“He was there. He watched.”

“What?”

“He did what he had to do, John. I don’t fault him for it.”

John’s breathing accelerates at the thought, his anger rising again. Almost happy that at last there is someone living at whom he can direct his fury. He had always distrusted Mycroft. Mostly he had hated the way Mycroft treated Sherlock. Even as Sherlock did everything he could to push his older brother’s buttons. Sibling rivalry or not, the thought of Mycroft witnessing Sherlock’s agony was horrifying. Had he stood there in his three-piece suit, leaning on his ridiculous umbrella with a smirk on his face? Had he secretly enjoyed it?

“You’re his _brother_ , Sherlock! Fucking iceman. I can’t wait to get my hands on him.”

“I told you that those last vestiges of Moriarty’s criminal network have been um…'taken care of’. Mycroft saw to that. And he got me out of there. And he convinced me to be honest with you about…my feelings.” The last two words seem to stick in Sherlock’s throat before he finally gets them out. And John guesses it is not a phrase that comes easily to him.

“Mycroft did that?”

“Yes. He’s not such a rubbish big brother after all. You should thank him, not pummel him.”

“Hmph,” John says. Not ready to let the elder Holmes off so easily.

John kisses another scar. Then another. There are so many. And each one is like a love letter etched in skin. Like braille waiting to be read by John's fingers, lips, and tongue. Gratitude and wonder compete with the rage and sorrow in John’s head as he continues his journey over the ruin of Sherlock's back.

Sherlock endured this for him while John was living in relative luxury in London. Miserable and grieving, but clean and fed and safe while Sherlock was being beaten and abused. Each scar is a tribute, each drop of blood spilled a testament to Sherlock’s love for him. A love John had never guessed. A love he had hoped for but thought impossible from the detective.

There had been so much wasted time.

And John had been angry and resentful…and lost. Utterly lost before Sherlock came back to him. By rights, he should still be angry at Sherlock, but he finds that he can’t be. Not after what Sherlock has gone through and what he’s risked. He really is the bravest and wisest man John has ever known. John stares at the crisscrossing scars, searching for any that remain un-kissed. He’s lost track. No matter, he’ll start over. He’ll kiss them every day for as long as Sherlock will let him. For the rest of their lives.


End file.
